“What happened?” he asked, craning his head awkwardly. “I thought someone fired a gun!”
“You frightened us nearly out of our wits,” cried the vicar. “And I was stupid enough to send Elsie flying to your people. Goodness knows what she will have said to them!”
Promptly the boy shook himself and tried to break into a run.
“I must—follow her,” he gasped. But not yet was the masterful spirit able to control relaxed muscles; he collapsed again.
Mrs. Saumarez cried aloud in a new fear, but the vicar, accustomed to the minor accidents of the cricket field and gymnasium, was cooler now.
“He’s all right—only needs a drink of water and a few minutes’ rest,” he explained.
He bade one of the maids go as quickly as possible to the Bollands’ farm and say that the mischief to Martin was a mere nothing, and then busied himself in more scientific fashion with restoring his patient’s animation.
Unfastening the boy’s collar and the neckband of his shirt, Mr. Herbert satisfied himself that the clavicle was uninjured. There was a slight abrasion of the scalp, which was sore to the touch. In a minute, or less, Martin was again protesting that there was little the matter with him. He would not be satisfied until the vicar allowed him to start once more for the village, though at a more sedate pace.
Then Mrs. Saumarez, in a voice of deep distress, asked Mr. Herbert if the rope had really been cut.
“Yes,” he said. “You can see yourself that there is no doubt about it.”